


Three's Company

by lbmisscharlie



Series: No Mushrooms Please [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bromance, Fluff, Gen, epic!friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-20
Updated: 2011-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:11:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lbmisscharlie/pseuds/lbmisscharlie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After TGG, Lestrade shows up at 221b every few days, to check on a convalescing Sherlock and John and to bring some entertainment in the form of case files. Soon, it becomes a routine, and Greg finds himself just hanging out at Baker Street, observing John and Sherlock's relationship and finding himself with two new friends.</p><p><i>The two working in tandem, silently anticipating each other’s needs, is not unfamiliar to Greg, as they have become something of a smoothly oiled machine at crime scenes, but their easy comfort in such a domestic setting still surprises him.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Three's Company

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [this](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=31881047#t31881047) prompt at the kinkmeme: _I'd love a cozy little fic where Lestrade stops by and just hangs with Sherlock and John, maybe updating them on what he's working on and asking them what's up, but not visiting just to request help on a specific case. I'd prefer the visit to be friendly and collegial, not a booty call (though reference to other slash or het pairings involving Sherlock, John, and/or Lestrade are totally cool). I'd just like to see the mutual respect and regard, you know? Because Lestrade deserves it. :) And I think it would make a nice character study of all three of them._
> 
>  _Super Bonus Points if this takes place while Sherlock and/or John are recovering from physical injuries post-"The Great Game" or from some other adventure, and Lestrade's sort of checking up on them, too. (This isn't necessary, though.)_

The ever-benevolent landlady at 221 lets Lestrade in, cooing over him like a mother hen as she simultaneously bemoans her tenants. “Driving me near distraction, up there all the time, expecting me to wait on them like their bloody mother. Course, John can’t really go out, leg as it is, and Sherlock won’t leave without him, so it just leaves the two of them, up there, bored and ruining my furniture with experiments gone wrong. Sniping at each other like an old married couple, they are.” She tuts this last bit through the door at the men themselves as she and Lestrade reach the top of the stairs.

“I heard that, Mrs. Hudson!” John’s voice, congenial and a bit teasing, rings out as Greg steps onto the landing.

John’s femur was broken in three places where it hit the edge of the pool, but he’s had the best surgical care in the country and will heal. He’s resting on the sofa, cast propped on the arm, leafing abstractedly through a medical journal. He tosses it down as Greg steps into the room, welcoming him with a smile. Sherlock looks up with interest from the armchair where he is sitting, Greg notices, rather gingerly.

When he sees the manila folder under Lestrade’s, he holds out his hand expectantly. “What is it today? God, murder, I hope.”

Lestrade can’t help but think of a small child clamouring for a present. “What makes you think it’s for you?” Sherlock rolls his eyes, not deigning to answer, and holds his hand out more petulantly. Lestrade raises one eyebrow, enjoying for the moment Sherlock’s sheer eagerness to be helpful.

John laughs, and gestures toward the unoccupied armchair. “Have a seat, Lestrade. Sherlock, _dear_ , aren’t you going to offer Lestrade some tea?”

“John, _darling_ , I’ve been reliably informed that you certainly are the consummate hostess between the two of us.”

“Yes, but I’m not supposed to be on my leg.” John smiles mildly at Sherlock’s grumblings as he pushes himself out of the armchair with some care. Sherlock had escaped with two broken ribs and a pile of bruises, leaving him with a stiff gait far from his natural grace. He ambles into the kitchen and fills the kettle.

“Now, my dear Lestrade,” his voice drips with exaggerated hospitality, “would you care for any biscuits with your tea this afternoon?”

“I, uh,” he glances to John for confirmation. Of what, he’s not sure. That they aren’t poisoned?

John chuckles and stage-whispers, “take advantage of it; I certainly am.” In a louder voice, he calls to Sherlock, “there’s a new packet of chocolate Hobnobs in there, if I’m not mistaken.” In response, said package flies from the kitchen to land, unerringly, on John’s chest, forcing a pained grunt.

Sherlock returns shortly after, carrying three mugs of tea and smiling blandly. He sets two down on the table between the armchairs and hands one, with some amount of care, to John. For all their jibbing, Greg can see Sherlock is mindful of John’s current limitations. The care would almost be startling if Greg hadn’t seen Sherlock clutching John’s hand after he was brought, still unconscious, out of surgery.

Once Sherlock lowers himself back into his seat, Greg hands over the file. “Cold case. Knew you were -” he gestures at John, “somewhat less mobile for the time being, so I thought maybe you’d be interested in taking a look at some cases from before you started up with us. This one we’ve found particularly puzzling.”

Lestrade details the case, Sherlock and John both chiming in with questions as Sherlock flips rapidly through the report, lab results, and crime scene photos. The two build on each other; while Sherlock generally disregards the input of most people – including the entirety of Greg’s team and usually Lestrade himself – he actually listens to John’s suggestions and questions, spinning his own ideas out of John’s inquisitiveness. He doesn’t even need to complete his sentences for John to know where he’s leading and it’s certainly the closest Greg’s ever seen anyone come to keeping up with the detective.

In the end Sherlock offers not quite a solution but certainly a trail they hadn’t yet considered. Lestrade leaves, listening as he goes to John and Sherlock deliberate what to do for supper.

++

It becomes somewhat of a routine, then, Greg dropping by every few days with a file under his arm. Some Sherlock offers a probable solution within minutes, others he puzzles over, asking more detailed questions each time Lestrade comes around. He can tell Sherlock’s itching to get back on the streets, to see the crime scenes in person, but they’ve both been cautioned quite severely by John’s surgeon that he’s to remain off his feet for a minimum of two weeks, allowing only for short periods of activity within the confines of the flat. Lestrade doesn’t bother to suggest that Sherlock come on his own; he likes John enough not to leave him to his own boredom and after the almost pleasant – or at least not excruciating – experience of Sherlock’s genius as tempered by John’s charm, no one’s rushing to return to Sherlock’s previous intolerable whirlwind of contempt.

On his fifth visit, John’s back on his feet – well, foot – hopping rather stubbornly with one crutch. He and Sherlock are already in the kitchen making tea when Lestrade taps on the door and he watches from the doorway as John grabs another mug and Sherlock deposits into it a tea bag. The kettle boils and as John reaches up to grab some nosh from the cupboard, pulling down a store-bought Madeira cake, Sherlock steps behind him to grab the kettle, one hand hovering near John’s hip, poised in case the man loses his balance. Greg’s not sure if John is not aware of Sherlock’s concern or simply politely ignoring him; either way Sherlock drops his hand as John turns but keeps one eye on his incapacitated leg.

John takes the cake to the table as Sherlock pours the hot water, who silently hands over a plate before John can ask for it. Slicing the cake, John gives Sherlock the sugar bowl sitting in the middle of the kitchen table and Sherlock scoops it out, knowing without asking that John and Lestrade each take one (John’s a rather heaping teaspoon, Greg notices). The two working in tandem, silently anticipating each other’s needs, is not unfamiliar to Greg, as they have become something of a smoothly oiled machine at crime scenes, but their easy comfort in such a domestic setting still surprises him.

++

Greg knows there will be a pile of paperwork waiting for him, but Donovan is booking in their man and all in all it had turned out to be a fairly straightforward case of burglary, despite the odd evidence at the first break-in which had prompted him to call in Sherlock. He found, surprising himself, that it felt good to be working cases with Sherlock and John again. Sherlock certainly kept things exciting and there was a certain thrill in watching him work, seeing him make connections far beyond most people. For his part, John was not only knowledgeable, dependable, and able to somewhat keep Sherlock’s acerbic personality in check, but he also brought a convivial atmosphere to even the most gruesome crime scenes.

So, when, as Donovan drove away with the suspect in the backseat, John invites Greg to Baker Street for some post-case Chinese, he finds himself accepting. His visits to 221b over the past few weeks had gradually evolved from his own attempts to keep Sherlock occupied to pleasant afternoons which he had, despite himself, been sad to see end. He takes it as a good sign that Sherlock makes no sarcastic quips or complaints when he hears John’s invitation and the three of them walk the twenty minutes to the flat in an atmosphere something like camaraderie.

When they arrive, Sherlock almost immediately collapses onto the sofa while John roots around in a kitchen drawer, emerging triumphant with a King Wok menu in his hand. Lestrade takes his usual armchair and jibs, “tired, Sherlock?”

“He’s always a right prima donna after a case finishes up.” John laughs when Sherlock gives him an obscene gesture.

“That’s what happens when you actually expend intellectual energy. You should attempt it sometime, John.”

“Oh, you wound me. Budge up, princess.” Sherlock lifts his legs so John can sit at the far end of the sofa, then resettles his feet in John’s lap. One hand resting on Sherlock’s ankle, John flips through the menu.

“Any special requests? We always get a little bit of everything – his highness here is always starving at the end of a case, not having eaten more than breath mints and chocolate biscuits for days.” Greg will eat anything and says so but still boggles at the length of the list John recites when calling in their order.

They move into the inevitable case post-mortem, discussing the likely direction the defence will take. Sherlock will probably have to give evidence in court, which Greg always dreads, but Sherlock seems if not excited at least resigned to the fact. Greg’s certain he owes John for Sherlock’s increased attention to procedure and reminds himself to thank the man next time they’re out for a pint.

They’re still chatting about the case when the heavy thud of the knocker sounds. John shoves Sherlock’s feet off his lap and stands. “Make yourself useful, will you, and get some drinks and forks?” Sherlock sighs but moves into the kitchen. Greg offers his help but John congenially waves him off and implores him to stay where he is.

John thunders down the stairs to pick up the Chinese as Sherlock roots in the fridge for a moment before pulling out three surprising bottles of beer. Greg and John have enjoyed a pint together once or twice, but he’s never seen Sherlock drink except for (cranberry-less) punch at the last holiday party. Sherlock notices his surprise. “John has reliably informed me that when one is celebrating with friends it is customary to imbibe. Plus,” he adds with a hint of a grin, “greasy Chinese always tastes better with alcohol.”

When John returns the two sit side-by-side on the sofa, eagerly pulling out a seemingly endless parade of cartons from the greasy brown paper bag, opening each and spreading them out on the table. Sherlock carefully drips half a packet of soy sauce into a container of spicy mustard, tasting the mix and adding a few drops more with all the delicacy of a master chef. When he’s pleased, he passes it to John, who immediately dunks an egg roll into it, which he bites into with an expression of almost erotic rapture on his face.

“Here, Lestrade, you have to try this – Sherlock knows the perfect ratio and well, just try it, it’s amazing.” Lestrade follows John’s lead and finds it is the perfect balance of salty and spicy, just complimenting the crispy fried egg roll. Sherlock’s invading a carton of fried noodles, delicately wrapping the fat strands around his chopsticks. “Go on, dig in,” John gestures to the spread and picks up a container of orange beef for himself.

Sherlock and John eat haphazardly yet with a complimentary grace, straight from the cartons, switching and trading every few bites. John circulates them down toward Greg who, after an initial hesitation, joins in with gusto. Digging through a pork lo mein, Sherlock spears a button mushroom on a single chopstick and holds it up to John, who bites it off before returning to slurping up some sweet-and-sour soup.

They’re swigging their beers freely and the conversation has long since left the finished case and Lestrade’s story of a prank gone hilariously wrong in uni moves them to harrowing flatmate tales.

“John, you’ve probably got most people beat in this area. No offense, Sherlock, but I don’t see you as a peach to live with.”

John snickers. “Actually, Sherlock’s far from my worst flatmate. I lived with one guy in uni who sexually harassed every girl I brought near the room. I think he thought he was flirting, but I very quickly learned to suggest that we maybe head to their place for the evening. I found if I said that he was studying astrophysics and I hated to disturb him, because who knew how important his work might be, they tended to melt at my compassion. And at least we’re not in a barracks, where you can hear every fart, snore, and wank of twenty men.”

“And here we all thought you got all the women through your charm and innocent charisma. Who knew you were so base and conniving,” Sherlock comments dryly, earning him a not-so-gentle shove from John that knocks him into the arm of the sofa.

“It’s clearly my devil-may-care attitude and rakish good looks.” John’s smile as he says this would melt butter.

The food has slowly been abandoned as their stomachs fill, half-empty cartons haphazardly strewn about the table. Sherlock flops dramatically over, his torso spread across John’s lap and one arm flung out across the sofa. “Ugh, I think I just ingested an entire pig.”

John rubs one hand absently at the nape of Sherlock’s neck, fingers stroking through the curls. “Oh, you poor thing,” he says, all exaggerated sympathy, “does someone have a tummy-ache?” Sherlock’s hand flops ineptly in what Greg thinks may have been an attempt to hit John, who laughs and smacks him lightly on the back of the neck. “That’s what you get for not eating a proper meal in days. Your body is desperate for what little nutrition you’re willing to provide it.”

“That’s not true, I ate an entire bowl of soup – and chips – when we were waiting for lab results three days ago.”

“You left half your soup and I ate most of your chips.”

“Well, then, whose fault is this, doctor?” John shoves him a bit, but Sherlock makes his body go limp and he just sags further. John rolls his eyes but shifts up the couch a little so Sherlock’s head rests in his lap. He seems unconscious of his hand gently stroking Sherlock’s curls and Greg marvels once again that the two call themselves just friends. As far as he knows, they haven’t embarked on any sort of sexual relationship since he was assuredly informed they were not in fact shagging last Christmas, but their constant easy intimacy wouldn’t really reveal any change anyway. Their friendship is as comfortable and fluid as the best of marriages he’s seen, anyway.

Lestrade, full and content, figures it’s time to take his leave. He’s got the kids tomorrow and he’s promised Sunday brunch followed by a visit to the Natural History museum for Lucien’s school report on the triceratops. He thanks them for the meal and assures John he can show himself out. John extracts himself from Sherlock anyway and walks him down the stairs.

“Why don’t you come by again sometime, non-case related? I think I’ve got Sherlock convinced to give the Bourne trilogy a try.”

“Yeah, why not? Let me know.”

“I have to warn you, Sherlock will talk through the whole thing. But, then, his commentary is usually more amusing than the movie itself.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything else.” They say their goodbyes and Greg steps out into the night, warm and sated and looking forward to seeing Julia and Lucien tomorrow morning.  



End file.
